


Fisherman

by Hino



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Also written for someone on tumblr wanting a non-ship Tentaspy, Gen, Slow going kinda thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 23:53:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4282749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hino/pseuds/Hino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was calm.<br/>There was nothing but the warm sun, the cool breeze, the soothing radio-<br/>And the scratching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fisherman

**Author's Note:**

> Formatting is a dick so I apologize for it if it looks awkward

Mick frowned as he gave the small motorboat a shove into the water, looking back at his father standing on the beach.  
“Are you sure?” he asked, readjusting the fishing pole hanging on the side and double checking the tackle box. “This is your boat, and I’m fourteen.”  
His father, James, crossed his arms. “Are you planning to crash it into the rocks?”  
“No,” Mick answered with a scowl. “I’m not stupid, Dad.”  
“Then you can take it.” A hint of a smile tugged on James’ lips but it was swept away as he turned back towards the beach house. “Maria, are you done?”  
Maria raised a hand, hurrying down from the small front deck, across the sand to where James and Mick were waiting. “I packed you some lunch and some sunscreen,” she said, leaning down to push back his hat and place a kiss on his head.  
“Thanks Mum. I’ll be back for dinner,” Mick answered as he tucked the small bag under the seat, adjusting the akubra on his head.  
“If you’re not, we’ll eat your share. It’s casserole tonight.” The gleam in his father’s eyes made Mick tremble. He was serious.  
“And I’ll eat all the salmon I catch,” Mick shot back with a grin, giving the boat one last push before jumping in and starting it.  
The engine roared as he pushed on the acceleration, taking him away from the shore. He waved, watching as his parents turned into specks on the horizon and the shoreline faded into nothing but a memory, replaced with endless ocean.

The sun was high in the sky when Mick finally came to a stop. He flicked off the engine, listening as it slowly fell silent. Standing up and stretching, he grabbed the anchor from the small dip in the hull, tossing it down and watching as the chain vanished into the blue beneath him.  
“Alright,” he mumbled reaching for the tackle box and pulling it into his lap. The hooks and bait were labelled appropriately, separated into small, coloured boxes but he moved past it to the small section of the box with the words ‘Mick Mundy’ taped above it. Inside were two small hooks, along with some line, already prepared with ball bearings and floaters.  
Moving quickly, he removed one of the hooks and tied it to the rod, attaching a few twitching maggots a second later. With a strong arm, he undid the catch and swung, watching as the line sailed through the air, landing in the water with a satisfying ‘plop’ and a splash. It began to sink and Mick rummaged under the seat for his lunchbag, pulling it out and nibbling on the packet of chips hidden inside.  
Cool air eased the summer sun and Mick gave the rod a gentle tug, feeling the line jolt with his movements. “A nap wouldn’t hurt,” he mumbled, looking at the watch on his wrist. Midday.  
He reached for the small in-built radio, flicking it on and fiddling with the antennae until the soft tunes of the local radio station made it out to him, only slightly distorted with static. Johnny Cash gently sang, the tune of ‘Folsom Prison Blues’ coming through with the distortion of radio station fuzz.  
Smiling, he wriggled into a more comfortable position, pulling his hat onto his face and keeping a hand on the rod in case something decided to take a nibble. The gentle sound of the radio, coupled with the warm sun and the rhythmic bob of the waves lulled him and Mick felt himself slip away, rocked to sleep by the ocean beneath.

Tapping on the boat was what woke Mick from his rest. White spots danced in his vision and he groped for the hat on his face, finding it absent. He sat up abruptly, making the boat sway on the still ocean. It was pitch black, only the tiny pinpricks of light above him piercing the darkness around him.  
“Oh no...” He span around, trying to get his bearings, but each direction was the same, just unending darkness. “Shit,” he cursed, grabbing his hat and setting it back on his head. Looking up, he tried to catch sight of the Southern Cross but it was nowhere to be seen, just foreign stars making up constellations he’d only read about. With worry pooling in his gut, Mick reeled in his line, making sure not to hook himself as he placed a cork on the end and set the rod down in the boat. The boat swayed as he stood, clambering towards the front where the anchor chain sat. Cold metal stung his palms as Mick tugged on the chain, body tensing as it scraped along the front of the boat. It came up fast and the cold sea air cut through him as he hauled it into the small groove that it usually sat in. He kept pulling, stopping only when his hand met air, stunning him for a moment.  
“What the hell...” Mick looked down at the chain with wide eyes, jaw slack.  
The anchor was missing. Cut clean off.  
The radio had fallen silent, battery dead, leaving him with only the lapping of the waves and the scratching on the side-  
Scratching.  
Mick turned slowly, breath caught in his chest. He felt the boat tip slightly under his feet, tilted back into the water, but he couldn’t stop, body already in motion.

The chill of the air was nothing compared to what he felt now.  
Tentacles clung to the boat, pulling the motor down into the water. They writhed slowly, inching further into the boat with each passing moment. Attached to them was something else, something that made Mick’s heart stop.  
Something human.  
The torso of a person rose from the tentacles, standing tall and menacing. Their arms glowed with vivid patterns, all gleaming in the darkness. Swirls rose from the wrists, tracing up the arms and disappearing at the elbows, only to reappear on the creature’s cheeks. White pointed teeth shone like ivory and piercing blue eyes stared at Mick, taking in his every move. The boat dipped sharply and Mick stumbled, clinging to the seat and groping for the knife his dad kept for cutting up bait. It was a reassurance once it’d made its way into his hand and he held it out in defense, hoping somehow that the blade would deter whatever the hell was trying to get into his boat.  
It only continued to crawl forward, boat rocking as sharp nails scrambled for grip and the dull sound of suckers on tentacles moved along the metal hull.  
“Stay back!” Mick stood, keeping his balance as he swung the knife towards the attacker but it did nothing to deter it. In fact, it seemed to make it laugh, voice deep and reminiscent of something he’d heard in his nightmares.  
The boat lurched again and Mick stumbled, dropping the knife. That seemed to be the sign for the creature as it leapt, slamming down on the boy. Mick’s head hit the bow hard and he felt a tickling sensation spread through his hair, followed by dampness. Above him, the glowing blue eyes stared, teeth pulled into a grin. The swirls on its cheeks began to pulse and Mick did the only thing that came to mind.

He delivered a sharp kick to the being’s torso, knocking it back enough for him to get up. The creature snarled and hissed and Mick moved. He backed along the bow of the boat, slipping in the hole where the anchor sat. The sharp edge met his back and he cried out, rolling off and into the water. Cold invaded his senses immediately and he took a breath reflexively, feeling ice enter his throat and lungs. Every part of his body ached but he fought past it, breaking the surface to cough and splutter. Wind whipped at his wet face, slicing invisible scars onto his skin but that was nothing to him at that moment. He just had to move.  
A loud splash sent him into motion and he didn’t need to look behind him to know that whatever had been on the boat was now in the water with him. It gave no noise of pursuit and that only scared him more, spurring numb and tired limbs onwards, desperately trying to make some kind of progress.

Mick Mundy wasn’t an excellent school student. He failed the arm wrestle, the magpie run, the mustache contest, everything that was expected of an Australian. There were only three things that Mick Mundy could beat all the kids at his school in. Climbing trees, throwing stones, and swimming.  
It had felt like hours and with each stroke, he felt his head dip into the water a little more, mouth swallow a little more water, body become a little more numb. His eyes were wide, senses both on fire and dulled as he frantically looked around, fearing that each time he stopped to blink would be his last. Legs slowed and for a moment, Mick stopped, coughing in some attempt to spit out the water he’d swallowed and get some energy back from treading water.  
“My socks are wet...” he mumbled, laughing a moment later as the exhaustion caught up to him. “You’ve been swimming for hours, your lungs are full of water, and your socks are wet.” He forced a smile, looking up at the stars. “What a day-”  
Water stopped him from speaking as his entire body sank, eyes stinging from the cold water. His hat bobbed on the surface and he tried to reach for it before turning his attention to the object wrapped around his leg.  
“Y-” He breathed in as he tried to speak, making him cough and splutter, inviting more water in. That face stared up at him, grinning eagerly. The tentacle around his ankle tightened and another slithered around the other leg, holding tight. Red circles began to bloom underneath the suckers and clawed fingers began to tear through his clothes, ripping apart the red button-up that he wore. His right sleeve was torn off, flesh beneath splitting under the sharp nails. The creature pulled him close and began to nibble on his left shoulder, breaking flesh and bringing blood into the water. Mick hissed in pain, feeling the salt sting at the open wounds. Pain mingled with the burning in his chest, body telling him to swim up for air but the creature’s grip was strong, threatening to keep him down.  
Do it Mick, you have to!  
Clenching his fist, Mick drew it back, slamming it into the being’s face hard. It stunned the creature, grip releasing on him as it touched its broken nose. The Australian took the chance, swimming for the surface as fast as his aching limbs would let him. 

Air had never tasted so sweet.  
He gasped and flailed, trying desperately to draw in needed breaths. Sharp nails slashed along his back, cutting through his shirt and pulling him back under the water. Mick held his breath, kicking and flailing as he tried to dislodge the fingers slowly digging closer and closer to his spine. The claws loosened and for a moment, Mick relaxed, tensing again when the claws grabbed his chin. Staring into those eyes were almost hypnotizing, spell broken when the sharp tips dug into his cheeks, slicing clean lines down his skin. The motion knocked his glasses off and they drifted towards the bottom of the ocean but he didn’t care in that moment. He threw another punch at its face, scrambling for the surface when clawed hands let him go.  
Mick breathed deeply the moment he broke through, gulping down air and kicking his legs as fast as they would go, just hoping that it’d gone, that he’d punched it enough to get the message across. A tentacle grabbed his ankle again and he felt himself being tugged downwards when a blinding light cast itself down on him, making him flinch. The grip vanished immediately as the deep bass of a fog horn rang out. It was a reassuring sound and the faint calls of deckhands put him at ease.  
It was alright now.  
He could rest.

Mick woke sharply, cold but alive. He took a breath and sighed, face screwing up as he turned to cough and spit into a bucket. Salt water tasted twice as bad coming up as it did going down. Lightheaded and aching, he released his death grip on the bucket and stood, stumbling as he tried to get a bearing on where he was. It looked like the sleeping quarters of a boat, bunk beds and hammocks strung up along with folded clothes. A blanket was draped over his shoulders and he clung to it, finding some comfort in the ratty old sheet. With numb limbs, he moved towards the door, opening it. Brilliant golden light spilled into the doorway and he recoiled at the sight, raising a hand to cover his eyes.  
“You’re awake!” A voice called to him and he tried to look down at the owner, only seeing foggy shapes. Glasses. Damn. “Hey, are you alright?”  
His voice was useless, so he shook his head. The blur approached him, clearing up as it came to stand before him. “Are you alright? We found you in the middle of the ocean. We don’t have real medical aid on board, so we weren’t sure you’d make it. Name’s Saxton Hale.”  
Mick’s eyes widened as he offered a hand, surprised when the giant Australian didn’t crush it in his grip. “If you can’t feel the wound in your back, it’s because we managed to inject the last of our painkillers. You’ll be good till we dock.” The smile Saxton offered was warm and Mick found himself comforted by it. “Now, would you care to tell us why you were in the middle of the ocean, between Australia and Madagascar?”  
“I-” Mick coughed as he tried to speak, but Saxton seemed to know what he was about to say.  
“You were floating, all beat up and almost dead. We’re about to dock back in Adelaide now though, so we can get you to a hospital. Fix you up right and proper.” He gave Mick a slap on the back and the boy bit his lip, trying not to hiss in pain. “Police are waiting for us at the dock.”  
Mick looked up to him, squinting. “How did-” He coughed again and turned away, spitting up more seawater. Saxton gently rested a hand on his uninjured shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. “Better out than in. We’re almost there. Questions can wait.”  
He just leant against Saxton, breathing deeply and trying to ignore the stinging pain in his back.

The loud horn echoed as the boat pulled into the dock. Seagulls cried and the dull shouts of dockworkers greeted Mick’s ears.  
“Are you awake?” Saxton asked, bending down to look at the boy. He was wedged between some crates, blanket pulled close. Mick looked up blearily, nodding. “We’re docking now. Police are waiting down on the deck.”  
His words roused Mick and he struggled to stand, silently thanking Saxton as he helped him stand. His legs didn’t shake much as he walked towards the wooden ramp, carefully edging his way down. Saxton followed behind, keeping an eye on the boy as he slowly moved down, finally making it onto the concrete. Immediately, a wave of police approached him, swarming around Mick and asking questions in rapid succession.  
“Easy, lads.” Saxton’s voice cut through the mess of noise and he took the opportunity to lift Mick into his arms, pushing past the group of officers and looking around. “Your parents are meant to be here-”  
“Michael!” The loud voice of a woman caught both of their attention and Saxton smiled, watching as the woman sprinted towards them.  
“Michael Mundy, where on earth-” A male voice joined a moment later, falling silent as the owner drew near. Out of breath, the two stood before Saxton, panting and trying to stand.  
“You’ll want to take him to the ambulance soon,” the tall Australian said before setting Mick down and stepping back, giving them a moment alone.

Mick looked up at them, drained and aching. Their forms were just slightly fogged but he recognized them. “Mum... Dad...”  
He looked horrible. His skin was pale, eyes red with the salt water and bags hanging just below. The button-up was torn and sliced, slashes on both the front and the back. The missing sleeve showed off the roughly stitched wounds and the heavily gauzed bite on his neck was soaked. Bandaids and medical tape held the cuts on his cheek closed, and bandages covered his ankles, pants torn away so the red circles could be treated.  
“Mick... what happened?” James leant down to look the boy in the eye but the look he received made him shake his head. “Maria, take him to the ambulance.”  
Maria nodded, gently taking Mick’s hand and leading him back towards the swarm of officers, now waiting near an ambulance van. Saxton set a hand on James’ shoulder. “Good luck getting him to open up.”  
“What do you mean?” James asked, raising an eyebrow.  
“When you called the police, they sent someone out to find the boat. They found it.” Saxton’s voice was low and James felt dread begin to form. “There were claw marks all along the hull.”  
James paled and Saxton nodded, smile gone from his face.  
“Whatever was out there, he’s not talking about it for a long time.

 

He’d become a hunter. A Sniper. Hiding in trees, far from the water, with only the vast desert to keep him company.  
Mann Co snapped him up just over a year since he’d started the assassination business. Miss Pauling had knocked on his door, handed over some paperwork, told him that Saxton Hale suggested him and then vanished. It only took him a week to make the decision, leaving his parents with only a note saying the company he worked for and a mail address.  
The drive to Teufort was long and his camper was some comfort, a memory of home. The radio sang Johnny Cash and it made him tense, knuckles white on the wheel.  
A young man waited on the back of a truck, looking over a pistol. He was thin, from what Mick could see and as he pulled into park, the boy stood.

“Welcome to hell, Snipes!” The American accent stood out and Mick smiled, stepping out of the van. “I’m Scout.”  
“Sniper.” He offered a hand and Scout jumped down to shake it, holding tight and tugging the Australian along. “Ya mind tellin’ me where we’re going?”  
“Into the base,” Scout answered. “Hopefully that damn Spy doesn’t-” He was silenced as he bumped into nothing, leading to Sniper crashing into his back. “Hey!”  
The space before him shimmered and a body appeared, dressed in a crisp blue suit. He stood as tall as Mick and wore a balaclava, eyes hidden by yellow glasses and an out of place akubra on his head. “Gentlemen.”  
“Get on your side of the base, frog.” Scout spat at the Spy’s feet and glared. The action did nothing for the Frenchman, merely stepping aside to analyze the new addition.  
“Interesting,” he noted, giving a smile and a tip of the hat. Sniper stood still, eyes wide and chest still. Gleaming white teeth shone and piercing eyes stared him down behind familiar shades. The hat was something he knew, too familiar to misplace. His present for his tenth birthday.  
“I should be going.” Spy smiled and turned away, heading back towards the BLU section of the base. He began to hum as he walked away, tune changing to words that chilled Sniper to the core.

_“I hear the train a comin'_  
_It's rolling round the bend_  
_And I ain't seen the sunshine since I don't know when,_  
_I'm stuck in Folsom prison, and time keeps draggin' on.”_  



End file.
